Chapter Seven

 

 

TO BE honest, I fully expected to go to Pearce’s apartment and find him long gone. But after I climbed the narrow stairs—no brighter in the daytime—and knocked on his door, he answered.

Today’s clothing was subdued, for him: black chausses and an unadorned tunic the color of dried blood. His feet were bare.

“I expected you sooner,” he said, grasping my arm and drawing me over the threshold.

“Busy morning.”

“What keeps a man like you busy? Aside from catching horrible thieves, that is?”

“Corpses. Pickpockets. Guards. Finches. Cake.”

Pearce’s rich laughter filled the room. “That is an eventful morning. Now, how do you plan to spend your afternoon?”

I looked around. I’d expected it to look tawdry in the daylight, when the frayed fabrics, worn surfaces, and chipped ceramics would be more obvious. But no. It was still a cheery place, warm and comforting in a way my apartments never were. And the flowers in the vases were fresh.

“I’m going to spend my afternoon getting to the bottom of a story about a stolen ring.”

For just a moment, he sagged. Then he tried a weary smile. “You’re tenacious, aren’t you?”

“As a goblin.” I wasn’t sure whether that was a fault or a strength. Maybe a bit of both.

“I thought as much.”

“Is that why you didn’t run?”

He gazed steadily at me. “I’ve run enough. I’ve nowhere left to go.”

That, I thought, might have been the most honest thing he’d said to me yet.

Moving slowly, he sat on a stool and pulled on black stockings and plain, well-worn black boots. Then he retrieved a gray cloak and tied it around his neck.

“He’ll kill me, you know.” He said it without inflection, as if he were commenting on the weather.

“Not if you’re blameless.”

“Come on! You know better than that.”

I shook my head. “I’m no starry-eyed innocent. But I’m good at finding the truth, eventually. I’ll find it now, and if you really didn’t steal his ring, I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

He stared at me. “Why would you do that? If you want to fuck me, you don’t have to go through all this. You can have me all you want. I’d enjoy it.”

Gods and goddesses. My stomach roiled with lust and self-hatred. “I’m sure you’d act as if you did.”

“You think bedding you is such a harrowing task for a man?”

I wanted to kiss the smirk off his face. “It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here.”

“No,” he said with a sigh. “You’re here to do your duty.”

“I have no duty to anyone. I’m doing a job. That’s all. Come on.” I grabbed his wrist more roughly than necessary and dragged him toward the door.

He came docilely, if slowly. A man marching to his own execution. Damn. Even if he had stolen the ring, maybe I could persuade Lord Uren to punish him less aggressively. Some sanction that would preserve the lord’s honor and also Jory’s neck. Damn! Pearce’s neck.

He paused a moment to lock his door, and I let him lead the way downstairs.

I didn’t know the way to Lord Uren’s palace, although I could have asked. But Pearce knew how to get there, and as far as I could tell, he took us on a direct route out of the Low and through the Silver. We didn’t take the Royal Road into the Royal Quarter but instead traveled via narrow back alleys and behind the gardens of the Silver’s finer houses. Paving stones laid in an elegant pattern and edged with orange-and-white flowers signaled our entrance into the Royal.

The quarter contained very little foot traffic, especially in this quiet section. Whenever the nobility traveled, they preferred to keep to the larger streets, where they could be admired in their finery or carried in their curtained litters. A few servants looked at us askance, but Pearce ignored them, I gave them hard looks, and they hurried along on their errands.

After we’d turned down an especially peaceful path with a tall wall on either side, I realized someone was following us. I didn’t look behind to see who was in pursuit, but the heavy bootsteps—probably belonging to a man—kept pace as we slowed or sped. Pearce trudged beside me, gaze trained on his feet, seemingly oblivious.

Then the high walls and pathway curved—and a man holding a long knife came into view in front of us, blocking our way. Pearce didn’t immediately see him, but when he did, he stopped and looked at me, panic-stricken. “You’ve trapped me!”

“Not my doing,” I growled. I pushed him hard against the wall and stood in front of him with hands at my belt.

The pursuer caught up with us. He was clearly in league with the other man, and now they both faced me with blades drawn.

“Daveth,” Pearce whispered behind me, his voice thin and tight.

“Stay put!”

He silently obeyed, which was good, because our antagonists chose that moment to move toward us.

Here is the secret to fighting: battle as if your life depends on it. Stupidly obvious. Yet most people, out of fear or uncertainty, hesitate before engaging. If someone advances on you with a weapon, assume he intends to kill you and kill him first. If you initiate an attack, you’d better mean it.

As the men inched toward us, knives held threateningly, I pulled both of my own. Smaller than theirs, but well made and wickedly sharp.

I threw one and the blade hit home, burying itself deeply in one man’s chest. He gasped and fell, clutching the hilt, but I trusted my aim. He was dead already—he just hadn’t realized it yet.

The city guard doesn’t approve of knife throwing as a combat tactic. It’s too iffy for the unskilled, and if you miss, you’re no longer armed. But I am well skilled. And I have the advantage of being equally adept with either hand.

The second man rushed at us with a roar, his movement too close and too fast for me to throw. Although I ducked his clumsy lunge, he managed to score a slice into my left shoulder. I would acknowledge the pain later. I moved close, shoved my knife into his torso, and wrenched it upward. He dropped his own blade and clutched at me, but weakly. I freed my knife from his body and inflicted another deep slash, this one across his neck. He fell, gurgling and trying in vain to corral his innards.

I turned and saw Jory plastered against the wall, his arms spread and his mouth hanging open. His face had gone white. And he held a stiletto in one hand.

“You killed them,” he said.

“It beats the alternative.”

We didn’t have much time. I bent, retrieved my first knife from the dead man’s chest, and wiped both blades clean on his tunic. I did a quick search of the bodies and found nothing of interest aside from their purses, which I tucked into my clothes.

Finally I turned again to Jory. “We need a chat, you and I. Come on.” I took hold of his arm and began to drag him back the way we’d come.

“But…. Uren?” he protested as I hurried him along.

“Not now.”

He exhaled loudly and joined my near run.

I wanted to take him to my place, but that lay all the way across the river, and now I couldn’t be sure it remained safe. His apartment was much closer but also potentially dangerous. Instead I led us down the quieter parts of the Silver Quarter into the Low, and then to a house I knew.

Its entrance was hidden by an alley—dark at even this time of day—and no sign announced its name. I doubt it had a name. But when we entered the cramped, smelly foyer, a wizened woman waited on a stool with her hand out. “Ten,” she croaked.

After I handed her the coins, she gave me a wooden disk with chipped green paint. With Jory at my heels, I walked down a hallway and opened a green-painted door. Most of the patrons of this establishment were illiterate, and many didn’t recognize numbers, so colors worked better to identify rooms.

It was a tiny chamber, low-ceilinged and windowless, and the lantern light showed only a straw mattress covered with a dirty blanket and a small washstand with a pitcher and bowl.

“Charming,” Jory said. His face had regained its color, but his expression remained drawn. “Is this where you bring the whores you hire?”

“I have, yes.” I didn’t want to bring them to my own apartment, and this place was cheap.

“So is now when you fuck me?”

“I think we’ve both been fucked already.” I poured a little water into the bowl and used it to wash the dried blood from my hands.

As I was finishing, Jory came up behind me and gasped. “You’re hurt!”

Damn. I had only owned the cloak for one day, and already it was damaged. I removed it and examined the rip, then dabbed my blood off the fabric. Some careful stitching would restore the thick fabric to almost-new condition.

Jory was clucking over my arm. “Take off your tunic so I can see better,” he ordered.

I rolled my eyes but obeyed, hissing at the twinge of pain. He dragged me closer to a lantern and inspected the wound. His hands felt like embers on my bare skin, yet somehow the heat made me shiver.

Concerned, he scrutinized my face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s a long cut.”

I shrugged. I’d received worse during sword practice when I was a guard. But I stood patiently while he dabbed at the slice with a bit of fabric pulled from beneath his tunic and moistened with water from the pitcher. Then he retrieved another length of fabric and used it to bind my arm.

“You should see a healer.”

“I’m fine,” I repeated. “My arm won’t fall off anytime soon.” But I did sit down on the hard mattress. It had been a trying day, and it wasn’t even dinnertime yet.

Jory perched next to me, his legs crossed gracefully, and we sat quietly. As I was trying to untangle the recent events, he interrupted my thoughts with a sigh. “You killed them.”

“Yes.”

“You could have just handed over your purse.”

“They weren’t robbers.”

“But—”

I held up my hand. “I know—people get robbed even in the Royal Quarter. Not often, though. And the clothing those men wore? Poor enough for robbers, but overly clean. And did you notice their boots?”

He shook his head.

“Even better than mine,” I said, lifting one of my feet slightly. “Also, their skin and teeth were in good shape, and they were well fed.” Too well fed. It had slowed them down.

“I don’t understand.”

“Go fetch my tunic.”

He grumbled but did as he was told, then tossed it onto my lap. I pulled the dead men’s purses from the inner pocket where I’d hidden them, then opened them and dumped the contents onto the mattress.

Jory whistled and poked at the pile of coins. “That’s over a crown’s worth.”

“Do you think men who had this much money would try to rob us? Neither of us look as if we carry a great deal in our purses.”

“So…?”

“So they were attempting—badly—to pass as robbers.” I knew someone else who’d very recently made an equally poor attempt to appear poverty-stricken. “But they were assassins. Fortunately, they weren’t good ones.”

He chewed his lip. “Which of us were they trying to murder?”

“I’ve no idea. But I suspect they’d have been happy to end us both.”

When he frowned, I wanted to reach over and smooth his face. All hells! Why did he so enchant me? He was pretty enough, but I’d seen prettier. When the assassins had confronted us, why had my instinct been to protect him? I’d left myself wide open to his blade even though, when I looked at the situation logically, he’d been the most likely one to set the killers on me to begin with.

And then I had the related question. When he had the opportunity to stab me—or at least run away while I was otherwise occupied—why had he stood there, knowing I intended to take him to Lord Uren?

Too many questions. I should have known better than to get involved with nobility. Well, at least maybe I could get a few answers now.

“Tell me what happened between you and Lord Uren,” I commanded.

“Do you think he paid those men to kill us?”

“Possibly.”

“Why?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out.”

He unfolded his legs and stalked to the door. I wasn’t sure I would follow if he bolted—I still don’t know. But he turned, leaned back against the door, and crossed his arms like a petulant child. “I want wine.”

“And I’d like ale. But not yet.”

Jory looked down at his boots, then up at the ceiling beams. He stared at the walls and the washstand and my damaged cloak hanging on a hook. Then he ran out of things to look at and finally gazed at me. “Uren has powerful friends. He’s on the Undercouncil.”

I knew a little about the Undercouncil, which consists of lesser members of the nobility. During my short tenure as a guard, I occasionally pulled duty at their meetings, which were tedious at best. Well-dressed men and women squabbling among one another and forever yearning for the more impressive powers bestowed on the Great Council. I preferred to patrol the streets.

When I remained silent, Jory continued. “Sometimes he has one of them hire me to sing. Two Gray Cats doesn’t pay enough for me to live off of, and entertaining at wealthy people’s parties isn’t the worst way to earn a few coins.”

“And in return for making these arrangements for you…?” I prompted.

He jutted his chin. “Uren gets to fuck me.”

“So you’ve been to his palace more than once.”

“Yes. A dozen times, perhaps.”

Thus far, the story made sense. But I didn’t see the connection to the allegedly stolen ring and the two murderous men. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but Jory had one for me.

“You’re not disgusted?” he asked.

“By what?” I was genuinely confused.

“I just admitted I’m a whore.”

“You admitted that earlier,” I reminded him. “And if a man was poor and as beautiful as you, he’d be foolish to pass up the chance to make money that way.”

“You really think that?”

This was not the line of interrogation I’d intended, but I gave him an answer anyway. “I come from whores, and I’ve never been ashamed of it. I might have ended up one myself if my fighting skills hadn’t surpassed my looks.”

One side of his mouth quirked. “You’re handsome enough, Daveth. But today, I’m more grateful for your proficiency with blades.” He returned to the mattress and folded gracefully beside me. I became uncomfortably aware that I was half naked, and despite my fresh wound, I had to fight the impulse to fall on top of him.

I cleared my throat. “It sounds as if you and Lord Uren had a mutually beneficial arrangement. What made him angry?”

“I don’t know.”

He was lying. I waited, my gaze trained on his face. I’d grown weary of this game, but I had a sense that if I yelled at him, he’d only harden. So I bided my time, and eventually he began to squirm.

“Maybe…. There’s a wizard. Arthyen. He’s one of Uren’s acquaintances. At Uren’s suggestion, Arthyen hired me to sing for his sister’s engagement celebration. And after the guests had gone home, he took me to bed.” Jory twitched a shoulder. “He didn’t pay me for it—I wanted to do it. He’s nice-looking and he was kind to me.”

Nothing wrong with that. “What does that have to do with Lord Uren?”

“If he found out….” He winced. “He thinks he owns me. He doesn’t mind when I sing for other men, and he might not even mind if someone paid to fuck me. But if he knew I slept with a man in his social circle for… for fun, he’d be angry.”

Angry enough to kill? Maybe. I’d seen people murdered over jealousy more than once.

Something about Jory’s tale didn’t feel right, though. I wasn’t certain that he’d lied, exactly, but I would have wagered he hadn’t given the whole truth. I didn’t have the energy or patience to wrench full honesty from this man.

“I need to speak with Arthyen,” I announced. I might have received a more complete telling from Lord Uren, but in light of this afternoon’s attack, it was best if I avoided him for the time being.

“I’ll take you to him,” said Jory.

“No.”

“But—”

“I have enough other things to worry about right now without also having to protect you. You’re going to stay somewhere safe until I find out what’s going on.” And figure out how to save us both.

Looking resigned, he nodded. “Get me some wine and I’ll stay in my room.”

“You’re not going back there.”

Now he looked stricken, and I felt absurdly tempted to comfort him. But I clenched my jaw instead.

“My lute,” he whispered.

Damn. “Your lute will be safe for now. Lord Uren knows where you live. If he’s the one who sent those killers, he might take a more direct route next time. And hire more capable assassins.” My arm had begun to ache, and so had my head. “I need to find somewhere else to stash you.”

He brightened a bit with the hint of a smile. “As if I were a stolen ring?”

“You’re somewhat bigger than a ring. And more… noticeable.”

Jory Pearce scrambled onto my lap. Straddled me, in fact, clutching my shoulders and holding his face close to mine. “You notice me,” he purred.

Gods and goddesses, yes. I noticed the weight of him, pressing in all the right places, and the heat of his touch. I noticed that despite our recent adventures, he smelled of sweet wine and spices. I noticed that his eyes were warm pools of honey and his hair like spun gold, and dear god Bolitho, I noticed his hard length straining against my own, our chausses little hindrance between us.

I pushed him onto the floor more forcefully than I needed to, and my wounded arm protested. He grinned, and when I stood, he leapt to his feet and plastered himself against me. And then he stole a kiss—hard and burning and fierce.

I was panting when he stepped back. So was he.

“I know someone who will hide me for a while,” he said. “But you’ll have to pay her for the favor.”